


the way

by etheralavellan



Series: Pusher [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mando is kind of an asshole, Medic - Freeform, alludes to violence, but no actual fights, but you like it, no beta reader we die like men, no fluff yet :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22571383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etheralavellan/pseuds/etheralavellan
Summary: You were just a local medic. You never expected to ever get to see a Mandalorian in real life. You have yet to decide if one showing up at your door is a dream come true or a nightmare.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: Pusher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624099
Comments: 4
Kudos: 114





	the way

You remember the first time you saw the Mandalorian. You were finishing up weekly errands, arms engulfed around sacks of fresh produce and meat to last you throughout the week. You had only one stop left, to top off on medical supplies. You worked as a medic, and your job stayed relatively well supplied, but you liked to have a decent stash at home in the case of an emergency—namely if the Imps decided to drop on your bustling town, but you had garnered quite the reputation with providing treatment to local bounty hunters and clumsy children alike. Not that you minded, you always loved helping and caring for people, and no small scratch was ever considered a waste of time or supplies. 

It was then that one of your regular knee scrapers, a young girl around five or six who was called Anneve, ran up to you as fast as her tiny little legs could carry to hug you around yours. She stared up at you with a bright grin that was missing a couple teeth, and you adjusted your bags to ruffle her hair and greet her with a smile of your own. When a few other kids began yelling for her, you waved her off and looked ahead, ready to finish up and get home. 

You dropped a bag of precariously stacked groceries when you looked up and your eyes met with the tinted visor of a helmet, where eyes should be. You had heard tales of the great warrior race of Mandalorians since you were a little girl, and always idolized them like some sort of elusive superheroes. You never dreamed you would ever get to see one in person. 

He walked toward you, head held high with an almost impossible air of confidence surrounding him. A pleasant breeze gently lifted his cape around him, framing his durasteel armor in a perfect picturesque fashion. You were frozen in place, mouth agape as he strode past you, helmet fixed straight ahead although he was nice enough to avoid stepping on your produce that was scattered on the ground. You turned and watched his strong figure disappear into the nearby cantina, and nearly had to slap yourself to get moving. With a flushed face, you dropped and scurried to grab all your food, then made a beeline to the medical supplies stall and straight home to gather yourself. 

~*~

You weren’t sure how much time had passed until you saw the Mandalorian again. A few weeks maybe?

This time you were just out for a leisurely stroll to enjoy the nice, warm weather on your day off. It was nice to get out with nothing to do, and you enjoyed smiling at everyone you passed and stopping for brief conversations with those you were acquainted with. However, as much as you enjoyed being around people, you couldn’t help the sigh of relief when you waltzed passed city limits and were greeted with the wild, untouched by civilization environment. You lived on a desert planet, so there wasn’t much to see, but it was still a nice change from the hustle and bustle of the city. You smiled softly to yourself and stretched, soaking up the warm rays of sun as you allowed your eyes to close for a few moments. You took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, already feeling rejuvenated. 

You lost track of time while you were outside, but the sun began to set all too soon and you decided to make your way back home. There were fewer people out on the street than there were on your way out as it grew darker. You welcomed the peaceful, quiet stroll. 

That was, until you rounded the corner to your home and saw a large, armored figure jiggling the doorknob. You approached cautiously as you withdrew the blade you carried with you anytime you went out and about—you couldn’t be too careful nowadays. 

“What are you doing?” you asked simply, blade hidden and posture ready to fight or flee in a second.

The figure swiftly turned towards you, and you could barely contain a gasp when you recognized the helmet to be the same Mandalorian you had seen a while back. He only had one hand on the doorknob, the other gripping his side and you gripped your knife tighter in fear that he had one hand on a blaster. “I’m injured,” he stated in a strained voice, distorted by some sort of modulator. “I heard you were a skilled medic.”

He stuttered like there was more he was going to say, then stumbled. “Shit,” you cursed under your breath as you rushed forward to keep him from collapsing. His large frame and heavy armor were not easy to hold up, and you felt something warm and wet oozing when your armed snaked around his side. “Shit shit shit shit,” you muttered as you fumbled with your keys and the door knob. After what seemed like an eternity, it clicked and you shoved it open. “Stay with me Mando, talk to me,”you practically begged as you hauled him into your living area. 

His head merely bobbed in response, like he was struggling to keep consciousness. Then, all at once, he became dead weight. 

You dropped him to floor as gently as possible (not gently at all) and sprinted to your refresher to wash your hands and grab towels and supplies. You could feel your palms sweating, hands trembling so hard you could barely keep a grip on anything. Why? You had never had a problem maintaining your composure in emergency situations. This shouldn’t be any different, yet it felt wrong, like you were about to make a futile attempt at saving some god-like being. 

You took a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. Sweat caused your hair to stick to your forehead, and you were somewhat glad the Mandalorian was passed out so he couldn’t see the fear and panic in your eyes while you treated him. You took in a labored breath and closed your eyes in one last attempt to calm yourself, then turned on your heels and practically sprinted back to the being in your home—you didn’t even know if he was human or not. 

Carefully, you removed his own hand from his injury so you could assess. It looked like a nasty blaster shot had found one of the sparse areas he was not covered in durasteel armor, and it looked like it occurred very close range. You could see clots trying to form in the wound, but it was still oozing bright red blood. With one hand, you grabbed a handful of gauze to apply firm pressure (you silently apologized and thanked the gods that he was too out of it to feel the pain). With the other, you worked on unclasping some of the durasteel around the wound to gain better access. You knew Mandalorian culture meant he couldn’t show his face to another living being, but you weren’t sure if that extended to armor and showing skin. You decided to remove and cut as little armor and fabric as necessary out of respect. 

You could tell the skin surrounding the shot would have normally been a golden bronzed color, but instead appeared dusky. You cursed under your breath and applied more pressure to the wound, stacking on more gauze as it became soaked through. You fought internally with yourself for several minutes as you continued what seemed like a futile effort to stop the bleeding—you desperately needed to look at his eyes, mouth, any mucous membrane to gain some sort of idea of how much blood he had lost altogether, but you had some idea of the way it would ruin his life as he knows it if you removed his helmet. But at least he would be alive, right? Or would he rather be dead than lead a life he may deem as shameful? He was a warrior, he would probably rather go out in this honorable death. But if that were the case, why would he come to you seeking treatment?

As panic began to set in anew, you remembered the first time you saw him. On that supply run, you had restocked on bacta, an invaluable resource you could never seem to keep enough of. With a thankful sigh, you used your free hand to dig around your kit for the tube. You also retrieved some sterile saline, clean gauze, and tape. 

By the time you released pressure, the trickle of blood had slowed substantially—you lost track of time as it seemed to be moving in slow motion and much too fast as the same time, but it had to have been nearly an hour of constant pressure. Carefully, you placed a towel on the floor below the wound and rinsed it thoroughly with the saline, dabbing it dry with some gauze before applying a generous coating of bacta and dressing it as neatly as possible for such a gruesome wound. 

With a sigh of relief, you felt hot tears streaming down your face, and you couldn’t tell if they were from stress or awe or disbelief or sadness. Likely it was combination of the four. You didn’t take longer than a minute to yourself, however. The Mandalorian may be out cold, but he still needed to be as comfortable as possible. You quickly cleaned up your impromptu work station and combed your modest house for any extra pillows and blankets. 

You wished you could pick him up and maneuver him to a bed or a couch, but he proved to be far too heavy and you didn’t want to risk disrupting the blaster shot. Instead, you strategically stacked pillows around his heavily armored body, taking special care around his helmet and making sure his neck was aligned as much as possible. You covered his body with a thick, cozy blanket before turning your couch into a makeshift bed for yourself. You were terrified to leave him here alone, even if you’d just be down the hall in your own bed. 

You didn’t rest much that night, constantly waking to check his pulse and dressing and make sure he was still breathing and to readjust his pillows to make sure he wasn’t too stiff when he awoke. That’s how you spent the next four days, and it seemed like each day the color of skin was returning and his breathing was gradually getting less labored. It brought you some comfort, but not enough to truly relax. You had taken some time off from work, claiming family illness, just to make sure you could take care of this man. You only left the house for necessities. 

It was on the fifth day, when you actually had the energy to cook for yourself, that the Mandalorian finally awoke. You were preparing a hearty stew, enough to last you for several days, the savory smell filling your house. You heard a grumbling of a belly from the living area, and your legs were carrying you to the Mandalorian before your brain could process that he must have been awake. 

The man stiffly rose from his supine position on floor, flinching and holding his side when he sat up. You watched as he rolled his shoulders and tried to stretch out his sore joints and muscles as much as he could bear to. 

“Sorry I couldn’t get you to a bed. I tried to make it so you wouldn’t be quite so stiff, but pillows and blankets can only do so much between a hard floor and steel armor,” you apologized, walking further into the room to stand in front of him. You offered your hand to help him stand, but he ignored it and pushed himself up on his own. You tried to ignore the simultaneous pang of hurt and agitation. 

“Did you remove it?” he asked gruffly, pointing to his helmet. His voice was deep and despite it being gravelly from not being used in several days, it made you weak in the knees. 

You simply shook your head in response. 

“Good,” was all he said. A man of few words, it seemed.

You stood in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before you cleared your throat. “‘Fresher’s all yours if you need it. I’m sure it’ll help your sore muscles, just don’t get the dressing wet. Stew should be done in a few minutes, too.”

He attempted to decline the offer, but his stomach rumbling again betrayed his needs. He still seemed anxious to leave. 

You sighed in defeat. “I’ll give you a bowl to take with you. Will you at least let me change the dressing before you leave?”

“I can handle it myself.”

You chewed your lower lip in irritation, but decided it wouldn’t be wise to pick a fight with a warrior of legends. Instead you huffed and walked past the tall man toward your kitchen. Despite your growing agitation toward him, you still wanted him to be taken care of after he left. You rationed out a couple of bowls of stew for yourself, and put the rest of the large batch in a to go container for the Mandolarian. You carefully placed the large bowl in a bag, along with enough supplies for a few dressing changes and what little was left of your bacta. 

You returned to the living area to find the Mandalorian patiently waiting on the couch, despite you not outright telling him to wait. You silently handed him the heavy bag, and you think you imagined his gloved hand stroking your own in an almost grateful and affectionate way before he took the supplies. 

He took a deep breath in like he was going to say something, but sat in stoic silence for several moments, pondering the words. “Thank you,” he finally sighs. It seems as though he doesn’t say those words often, like it almost pains him to utter them. Arrogant bastard. 

Still, you force a smile. “It’s what I do!” you say with a thumbs up and a toothy grin. 

“For not removing it,” he clarifies. “I can continue following the Way. I won’t forget that.”

You decide not to tell him how close you were to taking the helmet off as he stands to his full height and makes his way to the door. 

“See you around, Mando. Hopefully under different circumstances next time,” you state, half as a lighthearted goodbye and half as a silent wish that you do see him again. Despite his cold and aloof demeanor, you couldn’t help your intrigue. 

All you get as a response is a grunt and a nod before the door closes behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there’s not much fluffy relationship anything going on now, but I’m planning a series for this. Any thoughts or suggestions appreciated. And thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this :)


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